


Play Me a Song

by nephirious



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, College, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:07:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22314529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nephirious/pseuds/nephirious
Summary: Look, Lance can hardly be blamed for being a bit frustrated. Just this morning he overslept and had to dart to Calculus in his pajamas with toilet paper dangling from his left Hello Kitty slipper. Then, of course, Professor Morrison was collecting the workbook assignment theonetime Lance didn’t do the homework because he chose to stay up all night writing his essay on the history of Latin American composers, which he then found out wasn’t even due until next Thursday.So yeah. Today had gotten off to a pretty crappy start, and the asshole who’s hogging the practice room isn’t helping matters by any means.
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 40





	Play Me a Song

Lance likes to think of himself as a patient person. Hell, you’ve _gotta_ be patient if you were raised with 4 other siblings, all fighting tooth and nail to get a taste of the limelight. That science fair project he worked super hard on that ended up winning first prize? No, Lance, please just be patient. Mamà has to take Veronica to ballet practice, go to Emmanuel’s parent/teacher conference, help Luis with his mathematics homework, and then cook dinner. Then, if she has time, she’ll glance at your project, murmur a faint, “Well done, mijo,” and rush off to nurse her ever-expanding list of chores. So yeah, Lance is great at waiting his turn. And waiting, and waiting, and waiting.

But this was just taking too damn long.

Look, Lance can hardly be blamed for being a bit frustrated. Just this morning he overslept and had to dart to Calculus in his pajamas with toilet paper dangling from his left Hello Kitty slipper. Then, of course, Professor Morrison was collecting the workbook assignment the _one_ time Lance didn’t do the homework because he chose to stay up all night writing his essay on the history of Latin American composers, which he then found out wasn’t even due until next Thursday.

So yeah. Today had gotten off to a pretty crappy start, and the asshole who’s hogging the practice room isn’t helping matters by any means.

Seriously, who needs a practice room for a whole hour? Actually, scratch that. Lance wouldn’t have minded if this guy had actually been _using_ it. You know, like a normal person? But hell, Lance knows better than anyone that these rooms are _not_ soundproof, and he hasn’t heard a peep since he tried the lock and heard a disgruntled, “This room’s taken. Find another one.” from the other side of the door. Practice Room Prick must just be sitting in there, probably playing Geometry Dash on his iPhone or something equally assholish.

And frankly, Lance is not having it. His guitar lesson is officially in T minus 20 minutes and he needs to warm up his poor, out-of-practice fingers. So maybe he hasn’t taken a look at his sheet music since his last lesson. Sue him. He’s a busy man. 

Either way, contemplating the distribution of blame for a situation that’s basically entirely his fault isn’t going to get him anywhere. Right now, he really needs to get his hands on a goddamn practice room.

Mustering up more courage than his sleep deprived, Ramen-fueled body likely has the capacity to hold, he stands in a huff and impatiently raps his fingers against the door.

“Occupied,” comes the gruff, annoyed voice.

“Yeah, well how long is that gonna be for? I’ve been waiting forever.”

“Just find another room. I’m busy.”

Lance bites back a rather ineloquent retort and forces himself to take a deep breath. “I would love to. But all the other rooms are occupied. By _musicians_. Who are using them to play _music_.”

From the other side of the door, a low growl resonates. “What exactly are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying,” Lance replies, his voice rising, “either play some music or give the room to somehow who’s actually going to _use_ it––that being, _moi_.”

“You want me to––you know what? Fine. If it’ll get you to shut up. What do you want to hear?”

Lance feels his eyes roll. “Whatever. Surprise me.”

After a few seconds, Lance hears some tentative note plucking, and he has to hold back a snort. His four year old niece can do better than this. Seriously, has this guy ever touched a piano before? 

Then, without so much as a shift, the piece begins to take form. There’s a jarring chord, then another, and suddenly notes are pouring out from the instrument, the sound akin to the ease of a heavy rainfall. Though Lance can’t see the pianist, he imagines a face wrought with concentration as fingers fly across the keys, weaving together a beautiful, haunting melody. The notes are changing faster than Lance’s brain can keep up, so he ceases his efforts to acknowledge each of them and simply allows them to take form, to become the music that’s embracing him. Lance sits there in a trance for minutes, hours, days, letting the melody sweep him away.

And then the playing stops, and Lance has to physically stop himself from letting a noise of dissent escape from his mouth.

“Was that good enough for you?” the guy asks, and Lance can practically _hear_ the smirk on his face.

“Uh,” says Lance intelligently. “Uh, yeah. Wow. What...what was that?”

“Liszt,” the other man replies. “Sonata in b minor. It’s a bit of a tricky one. I’ve been staring at it and marking my score up for a few hours now, but I’d say that was a pretty good first attempt, wouldn’t you?”

“You...that was...what?!” Lance exclaims as Practice Room Prick’s words finally register in his baffled brain. “There is no _way_ that was your first try.”

He simply laughs, and Lance is left to wonder what the hell that means.

“Anyway...sorry for being an ass earlier,” Lance says, shifting his feet.

“It’s fine. Rough day?”

“Yeah...yeah, definitely. College, man. It’s rough.”

“That, it is.”

Lance laughs. “I’m Lance McClain. What’s...what’s your name?”

The man hesitates for a moment, and Lance is wondering if he even heard him at all when he lets out an audible, resigned sigh. “I’m Keith. Keith...Kogane.”

“Well, it was nice to meet you, Keith.”

Keith snorts. “I can’t exactly say it was a pleasure. You _were_ sort of an asshole.”

“Oh come on, dude!” Lance exclaims. “I apologized, we had a bonding moment about it. Bygones, and all that.”

“Fine,” Keith chuckles. “Oh, and do you still need the room, by the way? I have a class at 4:15, so I’ll be out of here soon.”

“Nah, you’re good,” Lance says with a casual wave of his hand, even though Keith can’t see him through the door. “I’ve got a lesson at 4:00 anyway.”

“You might want to get to that, then.”

“What do you––ah, shit!” A quick glance at the clock reveals that, of course, Lance is late. Ms. Gord will _never_ forgive him. “Gotta go!”

Lance darts off to his lesson, the musical chime of Keith’s laughter chasing after him.


End file.
